White River
by The Silver Feathered Raven
Summary: He was him, and yet he was someone so completely different that is seemed there was no possible way for them to have once been the same person. Shirosaki, i.e. Hichigo, from his first moments of consciousness.


It existed from the very beginning; a small stain, an insignificant blot, a tarnish in the little boy's mind. It was flitting, elusive, barely there at all, but it was. It existed in the darker moments, in the petty moments, in the moments when decision brought forth choices, and choices brought forth actions, and some of the actions were most definitely of its doing.

Of course, in the beginning, _it_ wasn't any different from _him_, and so the choices were no different either. The wants and hopes and dreams and fears were all the same, and they all blended together, like two colors that have run together so completely that you can barely tell what the original colors were. Like black and white, mixing together to create grey.

So _he_ was grey and _it_ was grey, and there wasn't any difference in the whole world.

* * *

He grew up, as all little boys do, and it stayed with him, the darkness in his mind and the anger that was on the tip of his tongue. It was still him, still grey, still existing without really knowing that it was anything different, because at that moment, it wasn't. It was the part that laughed when his friend tripped and the part that didn't quite care that his sister really, really wanted help with her homework. 

It was also the part that completely lost control when his other sister came home crying one day, her cheek bruised by an older kid. _It_ was the part silently rampaging while _he_ tried to comfort the girl, and _it_ was the one to cry and scream and spew forth profanities while _he_ offered kind words to his sister, while _he_ kept calm, while _he _made sure that his sister iced her cheek and got to bed alright.

But they were both together, both grey, and they both, together, went after the person who hit his sister, after that high school punk who decided that a little girl could just be tossed around. It was the part of him that laughed when droplets of blood splattered across his face, it was the part that didn't want to stop hitting when there wasn't any more movement and the older boy was unconscious beneath the bridge.

* * *

It was still grey like him when he first met the death god, and it was still part of him when his blood, and her blood, and both his sisters' blood splattered the pavement. It was there, screaming and yelling for him to _get up_ and _do something_. 

It was also there when steel broke white bone, tore though mask, and it was still him through all of that.

It was there, screaming louder than before, battering to get loose, anger and fear and terror all bubbling up when two men in black robes came and _took her away._

There was blood on the ground, and there was a hole in his flesh, and he was screaming so loudly inside his head, and all it wanted to do was get up from the ground and lunge forward and tear the paper screens and _get her back._

* * *

And then it became he, and _he_ became pure black and he became pure white, and it all happened in one pain filled moment of terror and despair and the thought that he was going to die in the bottom of a pit and _she_ would die elsewhere, because of him. 

And then suddenly he was there, sprawled flat on his back on the side of a skyscraper, rain cascading around him and the name _Rukia_ ringing everywhere.

* * *

He lay there for a time, hands pressed flat against the cold glass of the windows. He was breathing too fast, and the rain was coming down too hard, and his skin felt icy. His eyes were shut tightly, as though that would stop the rain and the cold, and for a moment he felt sick and nauseous, as though his stomach were trying to worm its way up his throat and out his mouth. 

The sick feeling passed, however, and the rain abated somewhat. He opened his eyes, looking out at endless towers, at dark tinted windows that glittered with rainwater. Waterlogged robes wrapped themselves around his ankles, fluttering in a gentle wind that wound its way through the city. He was still cold, but he didn't mind it so much anymore.

He lay there for a few moments longer, then pushed himself upright. _The world is odd_, he thought for a moment. _My world is odd. Strange. Sideways._

There was the lingering feelings of fear and panic around him, of falling and dying, and he laughed when he realized what happened to _him_ when _he_ was in here. Falling. And crumbling. And the thought, the _thought_ that he would fall inside himself.

_Idiot._

He began to walk, to where he didn't know. The city was large, he knew that. Nearly endless, or so it seemed with the never ending, always repeating buildings.

He'd never liked buildings. Had he?

He stopped in mid step, a sudden thought over taking him. Was he him, or was him he, or who was who? And who's thoughts and memories were his?

It was a disconcerting thought, and he shook it off as quickly as he could. He could think about it later, he _would_ think about it later.

The world around him throbbed, and there was a sort of _rush_ as _he_ collected his spirit power and let it go. He, the white one, listened and watched, head angled upward as though he could see what was happening.

_Interesting._

In those first moments, he realized that his power wasn't quite the same as _his_. He could feel his own power within him, and it was sharp, refined, condensed, where _his_ spurted and jumped and leaped around. There was a coarseness to both, a jaggedness to the edges, a harshness that they both shared, but it was still so different between them.

He continued to walk, stepping along the concrete of the buildings, tracing patterns around the black windows. For a moment, he wondered what was inside of those windows, but the thought left him a moment later, because the wind whistled around him again, and he heard a single word carried on it.

_Rukia._

His eyes narrowed and his hands clenched.

_Rukia_.

There was a strange scent around him, and even though it had been there from the first moments he had appeared, he knew that it wasn't part of him, not part of _him_, nothing to do with the two of them. It was the lingering residue of someone else, and it was fading with the moment, but—but still, it clung to everything. It was caught up in the wind, it danced along the windows, it--

_Rukia._

He lifted his arm to his face, sniffing the white fabric of his robe. His nose wrinkled and his lip curved—into what, he wasn't sure. A sneer or a smile.

He _smelled_ like _her_.

From the first moment, he knew about her, and from that moment he wasn't sure if he loved her, or hated her completely.

* * *

It was later, as he sat on top of one of the buildings trying to ignore the scent and feel of her, that he met someone else. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fluttering of black cloth, and instantly he became alert. He pushed himself up, so that his legs were no longer hanging off the side of the building, and turned in a tight circle, looking around himself.

For a moment, he saw nothing. And then, something—someone—was there.

He was a tall man, with long, wild black hair, and a long black coat that whipped out in the wind. His hair was dark, his clothes were dark, and his eyes were obscured by dark glasses. But his skin was white, and it looked all the whiter because of all the black.

He felt like _him_, and he felt like him, and he felt like someone else entirely.

"Who are you?" he asked, moving cautiously towards the man. There was still the space of a building between them, but he had no idea why someone else would be in here, and so he kept as much distance as he could between the two of them. For a moment, he was sure that the wind had caught up his words and swallowed them, because the other man didn't respond, didn't move at all. He was about to repeat his words, louder than before, when the other man spoke.

"Who am I?"

His voice was low, and it fairly echoed around him. There was a sadness in his voice, a longing; for what, he didn't know.

"Yeah, who are you? What's your name?" he said, and he jumped, crossing the gap between the buildings. "What're you doing in _here_?"

The man turned and looked at him—or rather, he thought that he was looking at him, because he could barely see his eyes through the dark glasses. "You want to know my name?"

His eyes narrowed. "You want me to repeat myself again? What's your name?"

"Ah, my name. Thank you for asking." There was silence, for a moment, and he felt annoyance creeping up through him. Just as he was about to say something, just when he had come up with the perfect scathing remark, the man spoke. "I am Zangetsu."

"Heh." So. Zangetsu. An interesting name, and he still didn't know why he was in here with him.

"And who are you?" Zangetsu asked, with his low, gravely voice.

He opened his mouth to respond, then snapped his mouth shut. _His_ name was the first thing that crossed his mind, and he said it, hesitantly, cautiously, tasting it out on his tongue.

"Really," Zangetsu said after he says _his_ name. "It doesn't seem to fit you."

It really didn't. Or, it felt uncomfortable, using that name. So he took a moment, thought, tried to find a name for himself. Finally, he shrugged, a wide smile splitting his features. "I don't have a name," he said, "but you can call me...Shirosaki, if you want."

* * *

He went off by himself for awhile, sank deep down into Kurosaki's mind. There were hidden pockets, old memories, old things that he ferreted around in. He found that he could leave the area of buildings, go into places elsewhere, where there was less of Ichigo and more of him. Places that were quiet and small, with rushing water and moss slicked rocks. Underground caves and rivers that whipped through both their minds, a current of thought. He found solitude there, away from Zangetsu, away from the rain. It was...comfortable. 

Except he could still smell her.

Even though there was no wind at all, he could still hear her name. She still completely surrounded him, like a shroud, and sometimes it felt like he was suffocating.

_Rukia. Rukia. Rukia._

Her name would drift down the river, spiral through the water, and sometimes he would kick at it, let the water splash all around him. It didn't help, of course, and when he was done venting his anger on the river, he would just smell like her again, the water seeping through the fibers of his clothing.

Sometimes, when the river wouldn't shut up and the rain was flowing too fast outside, he would curl up in the farthest back corner of one of the caves and scratch at the rock walls until his hands bled.

_Rukia_.

He wanted her to go away.

* * *

He was out in the city, sprawled on the glass of one of the buildings, when Kurosaki stepped into Soul Society. He knew it, because there was a sudden shock, and everything suddenly seemed more vibrant. There were patchy spots in the sky, where blue was showing through, and that blue seemed...blue. Very blue. 

"He's getting closer."

He looked up, twisting his neck as far back as he could. "Hey, Zangetsu. Closer to what?"

"To Kuchiki Rukia."

He scowled. He'd already known the answer, of course. The answer to everything was Rukia. Why was he unhappy? Rukia. Why was Kurosaki running like a fucking idiot? Rukia. Why was he even here? Rukia.

_Rukia_.

"Shut _up_," he hissed at the wind. At least the buildings had stopped smelling like her, but the stupid, stupid wind wouldn't be quiet.

"Excuse me?"

He let out an annoyed breath. "Not you."

"Ah. The wind?"

"Yeah. Fucking annoying."

Zangetsu stood beside him, looking out over the city. "I suppose so. At least the rain has stopped for the moment, though."

That was the only reason why he was lying out on the side of the building. "Yeah, well. It'll come back. Too bad there aren't any umbrellas around here. I'd like one whenever he starts getting all depressed."

More silence, and he goes back to staring at the building across from him. He's taken to counting the number of windows, because it's something to do.

"Make one."

He frowned. "What?"

"Make one."

He snorted back laughter. "Make one. Out of what? Cement and rain? 'cause that's all we've got around here, unless you go digging around."

Zangetsu looked down at him, and it was almost a pitying look. "Make it," he repeated, and then he held out his hand and did _something_, and then there was an umbrella.

He blinked, sat up, stared. "What the hell did you just do, old man?"

Zangetsu rested the closed umbrella on his shoulder. "Think about it. You're smart enough to figure it out, Shirosaki."

"Don't talk to me like I'm some kid. I--" And then he cut off his words, and let an overly large smile crawl across his face. He began to laugh, bending his head back, laughing and laughing. "Oh, hell. You can't be serious. I bet you've got that with you every time it fucking rains, don't you?" But he continued to smile, continued to laugh. "I'd cut your head off for not letting me in on this secret, you know. But I don't have anything to cut it off with." His grin grew even larger, and he held both hands out in front of him. There was a sort of condensing of the air before him, and then a white sword rested in his hands. It was long, nearly as long as he was tall, and it looked too much like an over sized meat cleaver.

He gripped the black bandages that were wrapped around it's hilt and swung it up on his shoulder. "Wouldn't that be ironic, getting killed by yourself. I think I'd laugh about it if it were me."

Zangetsu eyed the sword with an almost weary expression. "That's not going to do you any good, Shirosaki. And to kill me--"

"I wasn't serious about that, old man. Besides, if that bastard," he jerked his free hand over his shoulder as a way of indicating to Kurosaki, "has something like this, I might as well make a cheap copy."

"Hm."

He held the zanpaktou up before him, gazing over the white surface. White, with black bandages hanging from it. Black and white. But only really a thought. Only a simple thought, made into something solid.

Was he only a thought as well?

* * *

He spent the next days hidden away, burying his presence under memory and mind. There were twisted pathways for exploring, lost thoughts, corners and doors, and he intended to look everywhere. Not just because he was bored—he _was_ bored, but that was only what had initially prompted his exploration—but because he wanted to _know_ all the things, wanted to see everything from a new perspective. Before, there had only been one perspective, _his_, and now he could add his own. 

He half remembered many of the things he found. Old memories; pushing Yuzu on a swing, walking Karin home from school, bleeding under a bridge. Some of the memories were almost musty, as though they had sat molding in _his_ mind for too long.

And then there were the newer memories, the ones that were all too vivid in his mind. The ones that began when that death god first stepped into his room, when that first hollow tossed his sisters around like rag dolls.

He sat on the window ledge, unseen, as Rukia arrived at his school for the first day. He saw the look of shock on his face, the sickeningly sweet smile on hers. The ink on her hand.

He only half listened to the words as he watched the faces of all the people in the room. Some were blurry, not truly mattering in the memory. Somethings were too bright, too vivid, too alive. The white chalk lines on the board stood out in stark relief to the blackness behind them, and a pencil lay on the floor, almost glowing yellow.

He slipped from the window, walking over to where they stood, stepping beside her, beside Rukia. He looked down into her face for a moment—she was smiling widely, her eyes curved with happiness and tinged with mischief—and then he reached out tentatively, nearly setting his hand on her shoulder, before realizing that it was all just a memory.

Not something tangible. Not something substantial.

Jerking away, he slipped out of the memory and into the next. And then into another, and another. He flowed through them, watching the eyes of the figures that danced around his mind. Watching how they moved, how they held themselves. And then--

He moved from the memories, faded into the one that he didn't want to remember.

The rain. There was the pattering of the rain, dripping from the trees into puddles, splashing, wetting everything, even him as he stood there.

He saw it. Again, he saw it all again. The blood, pooling around his body. The paper doors sliding open, her stepping through, her looking back, _her eyes_--

He felt himself scream, not in the memory, but as he was now. A hand outstretched, he lept forward, clawing at the paper as it slid shut, trying, trying, always trying to keep it from taking her away.

And the paper screens slid shut anyway as his fingers passed through them as though through air. Because it was a memory, and not real.

It felt too real.

He sat down on the ground, curling his knees to his chest, resting his head on crossed arms. It was...not a memory he wanted. As a holl—no, it shouldn't matter either way. That memory _shouldn't_ hurt so much.

Eventually, he slipped from that memory, and back to his river and his cave.

* * *

He was dozing later, his head propped up against rock, when his world _shook_. 

He was up within a moment, jumping to his feet so quickly that he nearly cracked his head against the ceiling of the cave. He avoided that, somehow, and then quickly made his way up through Kurosaki's mind, until him came to the sideways world.

Zangetsu was there, looking longingly up at the sky. Shirosaki came to a skidding stop beside him, glancing upward as well, trying to see what it was that the zanpaktou was looking at.

"Hey, old man," he said, and the world shook around him again. "What the hell's going on? I felt that all the way downstairs."

Zangetsu looked over at him, then gestured toward the sky and the rapidly moving clouds. "Look for yourself."

Muttering to himself about the damn reclusive, mysterious, enigmatic man, Shirosaki thrust his head back, and _looked_.

There was a moment where he couldn't see anything at all, and then shapes and colors blurred together before his eyes, and suddenly he could _see_.

The image was grainy, like an old movie, but Shirosaku could still _see_, and he felt a sudden elation within him, like his stomach had jumped up into his throat. It wasn't memories, it wasn't things created by the mind, it was _reality_, it was _living_, it was...it was...damn it, but he wanted to...

The world shook again, and he heard a support beam in one of the buildings snap.

"Fuck."

He saw the flash of a zanpaktou, and he _jumped_, thrusting himself forward, and felt the zanpaktou stop. Felt Kurosaki take a step back from the impact. Felt him straighten, raise Zangetsu, charge forward.

And Shirosaki stumbled backward, his back colliding against the glass of the building's windows, blood gushing from his shoulder.

It cut all the way down to the bone. It cut all the way down to the _fucking bone!_

He let out a strangled half growl, half scream, his hand reaching up and pressing down on the wound as though it would make the blood stop.

"Idiot," he hissed, blood staining his kimono crimson. "Fucking _idiot_. He's gonna get us all killed."

"Hm. If the body's dead, so are we."

"That's what I just said! Except with more words." He spat out a mouthful of blood. Damn it. If he hadn't done that, Kurosaki would be _dead_.

The world wasn't shaking as much anymore, though periodic tremors passed through the air. Shirosaku tore a strip of cloth from his clothing, then pushed the kimono down around his waist, exposing the wound as best he could.

"Damn it," he grit out, attempting to wind the cloth around his shoulder. "Fucking idiot. I should kill 'im..."

* * *

The wound began healing quickly, and was nearly gone by the time the he bothered to look at it again. Still, it ached a bit, just enough to annoy him. And he was covered in blood. 

He didn't mind blood, not one bit. But this was his own blood, staining his own clothing, coming from a wound on his own shoulder. That was what he didn't like.

When the world had stopped shaking, all the tremors quieting, he returned to his cave and to his river. For a moment, he stood at the rocky bank of the underground river, and then he plunged himself in.

The water was cold, like snow melt, sending a shock through him. He ducked his head under for a moment, and in that moment the rushing sound of the river was dimmed, but the river's voice became all that much clearer.

_Rukia, Rukia, **Rukia, Rukia**_--

He surfaced as quickly as he could, then proceeded to wash the blood from his now healed shoulder. He was a little surprised at how fast it had closed over, but he wasn't one to complain.

The river caught at his blood, pulling it away from him, until his skin was white once more. But the water clung to him, clung to his sodden clothes, and he could hear it whispering, over and over and over again.

It was a constant in his life now, the name. It had been fading for awhile, growing dimmer by the day, and now--

Now it grew louder and louder, and the rush of the river greater, and the coldness of the water increased, and the only cause he could think of was that they were getting closer and closer to _her_.

He'd strangle her, he decided, as he sat drying beside the river. He'd wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until the river shut up. And then he'd—and then he'd--

He'd do something. He didn't know what yet, but he'd get rid of her, and then everything would be quiet and that annoying sound would cease to exist.


End file.
